


She's a 20th Century Vamp

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[20th century vamp](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/20th%20century%20vamp), [darla](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/darla), [drusilla](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/drusilla), [spike](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Darla ficathon: She's a 20th Century Vamp (1/5)**_  
**Title: **She's a 20th Century Vamp   
**Chapter:** 1905: The Lesson (1 of 5)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con and dub-con, violence, het, seasickness   
**Summary:** Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.   
**Author's Note:** This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00074q9w/)  
---  
  
****

1905: The Lesson

 

“Do you want to play a game?”

The blue eyes brightened and sparkled, and the long, slender hands clapped twice. “Yes, grandmother. I should like that very much.”

Darla suppressed a snarl over the name. Right now wasn’t the time to pick a quarrel with the lunatic. “Good. But you have to promise not to tell William.”

Drusilla pouted. “My sweet Willy can’t play? It’s always so much more fun when Spike—“

“He can play,” Darla interrupted. “But we have to surprise him. That’s part of the game.”

Dru clapped again. “Ooh, surprises! Will there be cake and tea as well?”

“Uh, sure. But look.” Darla held out two bottles. One of them was tall and green, the other small and amber. As Drusilla watched, Darla opened the green bottle, poured a small amount of the contents into a wineglass to discard later, and then carefully decanted the liquid from the amber bottle into the green one. She replaced the lid on the full bottle.

“Here,” she said, holding it toward Dru. “You need to make sure he drinks all of this.”

The brunette looked doubtful. “Spike doesn’t care for absinthe. He says it makes his head hurt.”

“That’s stupid. Vampires don’t get headaches. Besides, I bet you could get him to drink it.” She’d known Spike’s dislike of the stuff, of course, but thought its bitter, anise taste would probably be strong enough to mask the presence of the laudanum. “Just be your very most convincing. Okay?”

Dru smiled. “All right, grandmother. And then what?”

Darla smiled back. “You’ll see.”

 

Spike returned not long after, his hair disheveled and his shirt liberally splattered with blood. Darla barely looked up from her book, but Dru ran to him and he swept her into his arms. “Had a brilliant time tonight, princess. They’ve sent in a whole regiment to shell the workers. Collapsed buildings and dying Bolsheviks everywhere. It’s even better than St. Petersburg. Wish you’d joined me.”

Dru ran a finger across his cheekbone. “Miss Edith wanted to stay in tonight. She’s still cross. I don’t think she much fancies Moscow.”

From her chair by the fire, Darla sourly thought that she agreed with the doll on this one. She was bored already with this city, and with Russia entirely, actually. They should move on. To the Balkans, maybe. You could always count on some nice wars there.

Spike kissed the tip of Dru’s nose. “We wouldn’t want Miss Edith to be angry now, would we? But have you eaten, princess?”

“Oh, yes. Grandmother found us a lovely carriage driver.” She whispered, but loudly enough even a human could have heard. “He tasted like raspberries.”

Spike shot Darla a quick look. “That’s great, Dru. But now I have all this stolen blood in me and I don’t know what to do with it.” He’d lowered his voice to a throaty purr that made Drusilla giggle and Darla roll her eyes. Arrogant little twit thought he was god’s gift to females. And he was sexy, she had to admit, but she was 300 years old. She’d seen better. He’d be all right, she supposed, if he could manage to keep that idiot mouth shut, but he never could.

Dru grabbed Spike’s hand and dragged him over to the opposite side of the room, where a small, ornately carved table was set against the wall. “I have a treat for you, my prince,” she said.

His eyebrows shot up. “A pressie?”

Dru lifted the bottle of absinthe, which had been put on the table. “All for you, sweet William.”

He took the bottle and frowned slightly as he read the label. “Appreciate the thought and all, pet, but this isn’t really my drink.”

Drusilla looked like she might cry. “You don’t want my treat?” she said in a tiny, little-girl voice. Either she was a better actress than Darla had thought, or else she’d forgotten that getting the boy to drink the absinthe really wasn’t her idea to begin with.

Spike sighed and patted her shoulder. “No, no, princess. Of course I love it. I’d love anything you gave me.”

Dru shrugged his hand off and turned away. “No. You hate me. You don’t want me anymore.”

Spike looked at Darla again, as if he expected her to intercede, but she only sneered at him. He sighed again. “Dru, love, of course I want you. Look, I’m going to drink it now, all right?” He unscrewed the top, and, as Drusilla watched out of the corner of her eye, took a swig. He tried without much success to hide the grimace that followed. “See? Mmm. Lovely.”

“You truly love me?” Dru asked, her head still lowered.

“Of course, pet!”

“Then you shall have to drink every drop.”

He rolled his eyes, but then responded, “Whatever my princess wishes,” and took another chug.

After that, Spike and Drusilla settled on thick carpet in front of the fire with their arms around one another. He seemed to want to get rid of the absinthe as quickly as possible, because he took frequent deep draughts. Dru trilled on about an argument between the sun and the moon. Soon the bottle was empty. “See, princess?” he said, waving it around a little. “Every drop.” She nuzzled against him happily.

“Now, about that extra blood,” he said. He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled beneath him and he swayed unsteadily for a moment. Then he looked comically surprised as he fell flat on his ass. “What the bloody hell?” he slurred. He tried again, but this time he barely made it to his knees. His eyes were round and glassy as he looked up at Darla. “Wha’?” he asked.

She smiled sweetly at him and put down her book.

He tried to vamp out and failed, his features shifting only a little bit before they slid back to their human aspect. Then he collapsed facefirst onto the rug.

“Did I play well, grandmother?” Dru chirped.

“Outstanding,” Darla replied, and Dru clapped her hands again.

There was a table in the middle of the kitchen. It was a huge thing, heavy and scarred from frequent use. The servants must have dined there, before the vampires had dined on the servants. With Drusilla’s giggling assistance, Darla stripped off every thread of Spike’s clothing. Not pausing to admire the result, she carried him into the kitchen and draped him belly down over the table. Then she used an assortment of ropes and chains to bind his spread arms and legs to the legs of the table. She looped some rope around his neck as well and tied it securely to the table so that he wouldn’t be able to lift his head more than an inch or so.

She stood back to admire her work. She had to admit, he looked very fetching like this, with his rounded ass invitingly displayed, and his balls and soft cock hanging underneath like ripe fruit, and his strong back muscles stretched and taut. He wasn’t conscious—wasn’t even breathing, actually. She patted his rump fondly. “We can’t continue playing until he wakes up. How about a game of cribbage?”

 

They ignored the moans and then the shouts coming from the kitchen. Drusilla had insisted that Miss Edith be allowed to play, too, and that slowed things down, but it also kept Dru focused on the cards instead of the noise from the next room. By the time the swearing had devolved into hoarse screams, it was dawn, and Darla was sleepy.

She stood and brushed at her skirts. “I think our game will have to wait until tomorrow, my dear,” she said. When Dru looked like she might protest, Darla tugged at her hand. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

Darla didn’t often sleep with Dru. She generally preferred males, and so did Dru, and anyway the addled thing was as likely as not to get sidetracked halfway through by thinking the dust motes wanted her to cook them breakfast or something, and it just wasn’t worth it. But today Darla wanted to make sure Dru stayed away from Spike, so Darla pulled her into the big canopy bed and distracted her with caresses and kisses and fingers and tongues, until Dru fell fast asleep in her arms. Eventually the sounds in the kitchen died off too. Darla wasn’t sure whether it was because Spike had given up, or maybe his voice had finally given out.

Dark came early this time of year, and Darla and Drusilla slept until well after dusk, until a minion scurried in to feed the fire. The vampires rose then and stretched and sleepily pulled on their layers of clothing. Darla gave a few commands to the minion and he returned as they were still brushing each other’s hair. He had with him a terrified young man, all trussed up and crying into his gag. Darla and Dru fed quickly and then wandered into the kitchen, leaving the minion to discard of the corpse.

Spike was quite a sight. He obviously had struggled against his bonds, leaving himself bruised and slightly bloody, but Darla was very good at tying people up and he hadn’t managed to loosen them a bit. His face was stained with dried tears and snot, his hair was a tumbled mess, and he was growling at her through his fangs. His growl intensified when she ran her fingertips lightly down the length of his spine.

“Let me go.”

She laughed. “Eventually, little Willy, eventually.”

“Bitch!” he spat.

She slapped his ass playfully. “Absolutely.”

He tugged helplessly at the ropes and chains for a moment and then rolled his eyes until he was looking at Drusilla. She was standing back a little, her doll under her arm. “Dru. Please untie me.”

She covered her grinning mouth with one hand and shook her head.

“My princess, my dark plum. Set me free and we can go have some fun together, just you and me. I’ll find you some new dresses, pet. Please.”

She giggled and then shook one long finger at him. “Grandmother says you’re to stay there for now. You’ve been naughty.”

“Dru, please—“

“I think that we’ve heard enough from him already, haven’t we Drusilla?” Darla asked. Dru nodded and sat on one of the hard wooden chairs. Darla picked up an item from the sideboard and waved it in front of Spike’s face.

“Cunt!” he snarled. “You—“ But he didn’t get to finish his thought, because she quickly shoved the bit between his teeth and buckled it securely behind his head. She’d had this little toy made for her by a blacksmith several days ago, and she’d been so pleased with it she’d allowed the smith to live. It looked very nice now, with a thick iron bar jammed securely in that pretty mouth, attached with large rings to thick leather straps. Spike could make incoherent noises, of course, and drool was already beginning to collect and run down his chin, but he couldn’t actually speak. For once. She smiled at the effect.

“Now, William. You’re going to have to listen without arguing or talking back.” He looked furious, especially when she started running her fingers through his hair. “Now, there are all sorts of things I could do to you now. I could shave off these silly curls. I could dust you.” She walked a step or so around the table and grabbed his balls in her hand. She squeezed them tightly. “I could castrate you.” She chuckled at the desperate choking noise he made at that, and then at his sigh of relief when she released him.

“I’m not going to do any of those things, though. At least, not this time. But ever since you killed that Slayer you’ve been much too big for your britches, and I think it’s time you remembered who’s in charge. Wouldn’t you agree, Drusilla?”

Dru’s eyes were shining as she nodded her agreement. She loved punishment games, whoever was the one being punished. Spike, on the other hand, shook his head as much as the rope permitted and rumbled into the gag.

“Dru, honey, how about if you go round up the minions? They might like to see this.”

Dru skipped off, and Darla just stood in front of Spike, smirking. “I didn’t need to drug you, you know. I could’ve tied you down just fine without. But I thought it would be more fun this way. Thought you might like to see how easy it is to turn your princess against you, even without her precious Daddy here.” Her smile didn’t dim as Spike wiggled and squirmed powerlessly.

Drusilla returned shortly with the half dozen minions trooping behind her. They all shifted nervously from one foot to another until Darla shooed them to the edges of the room and made it clear they were to be spectators to this sport rather than participants. Then they relaxed, sneering and sniggering at the unfortunate vampire in front of them.

Darla walked around to Spike’s backside again. He tried to twist his head around to watch her, but couldn’t quite manage. So when she swatted his right buttock hard with her open palm he didn’t see it coming, and he let out a surprised little yelp. That set everyone to laughing out loud.

Darla had to admit, the boy had a spectacular ass. His buttocks were nice and firm, the skin silky and smooth, and the white turned to bright red so very nicely. She used a great deal of her strength in the blows, and soon he was moaning and crying out of pain and humiliation. When she paused, he was almost hot to the touch.

She saw him sag slightly, as if he thought the worst was over. It wasn’t, though, because next she reached down a little and began stroking his flaccid cock. She was very good at this sort of manipulation—she’d been a professional, after all—and soon, although more tears of shame had sprung from his eyes, he was fully erect. The pink crown of his cock peeked out from his retracted foreskin, already slightly damp. She stroked him a while more, quite firmly, until his thighs trembled with the effort not to hump into her hand and his balls were tightly drawn up. Then she grabbed a leather cord from the sideboard and, as he moaned piteously, tied it tightly around the base of his cock and balls.

“What do you think, Dru?” she asked.

Dru wandered over and then bent down for a close look at his fiery ass. She ran a single sharp fingernail over the swell of his left buttock, creating a thin cut. Then she licked at it before standing straight. “I think he needs more,” she concluded. “Shall I fetch my hairbrush?”

“Wonderful idea!”

Dru ran into the bedroom and then back. She was clutching a wide wooden brush in one hand. She gave it to Darla.

Darla resumed smacking him, this time with the back of the brush. Each blow was almost startlingly loud in the small room, the only other sounds being his whimpers and groans. When she grew bored, she looked around for more inspiration, then smiled.

Several baskets were arrayed neatly in one corner of the room. One held yellow, papery onions, the second contained bulbous potatoes, and the third was filled with thick, cream-colored parsnips. She walked over to the corner and carefully picked through the basket until she found the biggest parsnip. Spike watched with wide, watering eyes. She didn’t especially want to damage him, not this time, so she searched until she found a packet of rendered fat tucked away in a cupboard. She coated the root in a thin layer of the greasy stuff.

She walked behind him, ran a soothing hand lightly over his sore bottom and then, abruptly, pushed the vegetable into his tight little hole. He screeched.

He wasn’t a virgin. Had been when he was turned, of course, but Angelus had made frequent and eager use of that small entry. But it had been many years since Angelus had had him, and she was fairly certain he hadn’t fucked anyone in the meantime except Dru and the occasional girl he was planning to kill. And Darla herself, every once in a while, when she was in the right mood. It had been a long time since he’d had anything up his bum, she’d be willing to bet.

Dru swayed over again and took the hairbrush herself. As Darla worked the parsnip in and out of Spike, Dru hit him hard, until his butt and upper thighs were a mass of angry welts, and her hair was a wild mess, and Spike was mewling and thrashing his head as much as the rope permitted. The minions just watched, muttering excitedly among themselves.

Eventually, Darla’s hand grew tired. Spike’s eyes were tightly shut and he was emitting a continuous, low-pitched bleating sound. She left the vegetable deeply inside him, pushed Dru gently away, and walked around so she was in front of Spike’s face. “Open your eyes, William. Look at me.” Her voice was firm but not cruel, like a mother speaking to a recalcitrant child. He blinked at her.

“Are you listening carefully?”

He gave a tiny nod.

“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?”

He nodded again.

“I’m going to take the bit out now. I want you to tell me what you’ve learned. If your words are anything but respectful, you’re going to ride the whole way to Sarajevo bare-assed, with that gag in your mouth and the parsnip up your rectum. Got it, Willy?”

He squeezed his eyes shut again, but nodded.

She was almost tender as she unbuckled the straps and then massaged a bit at the deep indentations in his skin. He winced and licked some of the spittle from his lips. “Let’s hear it,” she said.

He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’ve learnt you’re in charge,” he rasped. “I won’t be so….”

“Cocky?” she suggested, briefly fondling his swollen, purple organ.

“Cocky,” he agreed with a groan.

“Good. One way or the other, you’re going to remember who wears the pants in our twisted little family.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

She walked behind him one last time and untied the strip of leather that bound his cock. Then she carefully rocked the parsnip inside him, once, twice, three times, and with choked cry, he came, his seed spurting onto the dusty wooden floor.

Darla pulled the vegetable out, tossed it aside, and wiped her hands on Spike’s lower back. Then she turned to Dru. “Go ahead and get him untied and cleaned up, honey.”

“May I play mummy when I do?”

“Of course you may.”

Dru hopped eagerly to her task, while Darla stalked out of the kitchen, across the hall, and into the parlor. Her book was still there and one of the minions had set a glass and a bottle of good merlot on the table beside it. She settled into the chair with a satisfied sigh. She barely looked up some time later, when Dru walked through toward the bathroom with Spike, still naked, draped half across her back for support.

Turning the page of her book, she allowed herself a small smile. Spike might be subdued now, but sooner or later he was going to need a refresher lesson. She would enjoy that very much.

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/85391.html)


	2. She's a 20th Century Vamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[20th century vamp](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/20th%20century%20vamp), [darla](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/darla)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Darla ficathon: She's a 20th Century Vamp (2/5)** _

**Title: **She's a 20th Century Vamp   
**Chapter:** 1923: Turning Point   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con and dub-con, violence, het, seasickness   
**Summary:** Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.   
**Author's Note:** This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00074q9w/)  
---  
  
****

**1923: Turning Point**

 

He didn’t have enough blood left in him to get hard, but she played with his big, soft cock anyway, and he turned his glazed eyes towards her and moaned. He’d been a whimsical choice, younger and considerably emptier of pocket than her usual, but he had been too goddamn pretty to pass up. He was tall and broad shouldered, his muscles well-developed from years of work on a farm that hadn’t yet moved beyond medieval technology. He had straight, sandy hair and eyes that had been a startling, clear gray-green. He smelled of earth and horses and sweet grapes.

Her initial impulse had been to keep him. She’d been traveling alone nearly a decade now and she was lonely. But her past experiences had given her the wisdom to wait a while before turning him, to see if she could really stand his company for the foreseeable future. She’d kept him chained up for a little while, only snacking on him lightly now and then, until he’d been willing to follow her on his own like a loyal puppy. And it had turned out to be a good thing she’d waited. The boy was thick as a brick. He was barely literate, and before she came along his entire life had been spent with a few miles of his family’s farm. He floundered completely if a conversation turned past plows and seedlings and the weather, none of which were topics she cared about at all. And while he might have been handsome, and generously endowed as well, but he was completely unimaginative in bed. Sure, she had enough imagination for the two of them, but she didn’t want to have to work so hard at it all the time. Her Angelus hadn’t been the sharpest tool in the shed either, but at least that boy had been practically a virtuoso at lovemaking.

With a resigned frown, Darla pushed at Matyas’s thigh. He dutifully spread his heavy legs farther apart and then groaned and arched up a little as she sank her fangs into his femoral artery. She played with the lush curls at his groin as she fed and, even as his heart faltered, he tried weakly to push into her touch. His last breath left him with a long, sweet sigh, and she finished the last of him before licking her lips clean.

She stood and looked down at him. His eyes were dull now, and sunken deeply in his paper-white face. She’d just leave the corpse where it was, she decided. It was time to move on anyway. West, she thought. Not to a certain underground cave in Germany that had been frequently in her thoughts of late, but maybe Berlin. Paris. Things were interesting in Italy right now with the Fascists in power. There was a war going on in Ireland as well, but even Irish accents were painful to her now, and she’d stay far away from there. Maybe London, though. She missed speaking English.

 

She climbed into the driver’s seat of her Alfa Romeo. Luca sat beside her, glaring slightly. It had been his car first, after all. But she’d fallen in love the lines of it and turned him, even though he was short and hairy and ugly. But he’d taught her how to drive, and he knew how to fix the thing when it broke down, so she kept him at her side despite the fact that his taste in very young girls sometimes endangered them all.

She took only two additional minions with her and they followed behind in a considerably more staid Fiat that was heaped with her luggage. Their little caravan made its way over uneven roads, many of which still hadn’t been repaired after the Great War. They spent a few pleasant weeks in Vienna, where the inhabitants tasted as rich as their famous pastries, and, later, a few more weeks in sober, stolid Brussels. She found a few bankers there and lined her pocketbooks considerably, enough, in fact, to book a private ferry from Zeebrugge, and, after six hours spent tight-jawed below decks, she and the other vampires and the cars and the trunks and suitcases were deposited on solid ground in Harwich just after sunset.

Darla was tired and hungry, so she decided to stay in Harwich for a night or two. She left the minions and the Fiat at the harbor as she drove around for a while. Finally she saw a middle-aged man just entering an attractive but modest little house. She parked the car and, a few minutes after he’d gone inside, she knocked on his door. His eyes widened as soon as he saw her and she knew she was home free. So she stuck out her chest and concocted a half-assed tale about being lost. The man invited her in, of course, and she immediately drained him. She found an elderly lady in the kitchen, making supper—his mother, no doubt—and she gagged and tied her and stuffed her in a closet for a later meal, or maybe for the minions to share. Then she drove back to the others and brought them to the house, and watched as they moved her things inside.

Bored, she decided to find some entertainment. There were three cinemas in town. The first was playing _The Ten Commandments_, which was far too Biblical for her tastes. _Souls for Sale_ was at the second—again, unpleasant associations there. But the third had _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_, and that was diverting enough. Afterward she found a pub and a sailor, and, although she wasn’t really hungry, helped herself to a midnight snack.

 

London was very different than when she’d been here last. Last time there had been no cars. Traffic moved just as slowly as before, only now the stink was more of exhaust than horseshit, and crossing the street on foot was even more hazardous than it used to be.

Out of sheer perversity, Darla found the house where she’d stayed with Angelus and Drusilla and then Spike, forty years before. Now it was occupied by a pair of old maids, sisters, who were too dried up to offer much of a meal. Darla moved into the room she’d shared with Angelus, but she had it redecorated at once into something more modern. She bought an enormous bed as well. There was a carriage house in back that was big enough for both cars, and Luca moved in there. Darla kept the other two minions in the main house with her.

She found plenty to do in London—pubs and cinemas and shopping—and the skies were often gray enough for her to venture out well before sunset. She liked the new fashions, which were so much less confining than before, and the new freedoms that had been granted to women. Now, few people looked askance at her when she appeared in public without a man at her side, and that was good, because she didn’t much enjoy Luca’s company, and the other minions were even worse.

Not far from Covent Garden was a café she came to like. It was open very late, and its big windows looked out onto a street that had heavy foot-traffic. It was a convenient place to keep an eye out for prey. But she went even when she wasn’t hungry, because there was often a man there who played the piano passably well, and the other patrons’ conversations were fun to eavesdrop on, and there were often young women there, alone or in twos and threes, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Darla didn’t smoke—she didn’t like the smell of it on her skin—and she only pretended to sip at her coffee, but she tipped well, so the waiters didn’t mind if she sat there all night.

Sometimes Darla brought a book with her. One night she brought a novel that she’d recently bought, and she tried very hard to get through it, but only fifty pages in she got so frustrated with it that she snarled and threw it, probably a little harder than she’d meant to. It bounced off her table and onto the back of the man at the next table over.

The man startled and then looked down at the floor, where the book lay sprawled open. He picked it up and swiveled around so that he was looking at Darla.

“Not enjoying _Ulysses_?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling with good humor. He was in his late twenties, with a face that was more interesting than handsome, she thought, and rather unruly sable hair.

“I should have known better than to try and read something written by an Irishman,” she replied.

He set the book gingerly on her table. “Do the Americans have something against the Irish now, as well?” he smiled.

“Not all of them. Just me. And I’m not really American—I just lived there for a while.”

“I’ve never visited, but I’ve heard it’s a lovely country.”

She shrugged. “I prefer Europe.”

He nodded and looked like he might turn back away. But then he squared his shoulders a little—and they were nice, broad shoulders at that—and smiled again. “Would you mind if I joined you? If you’d like, I can offer you a book you might prefer.” He held up the one he’d been reading. “It’s poetry, I’m afraid, but quite good. And I believe the author is American rather than Irish.”

She peered at the cover. “E. E. Cummings. Never heard of him.”

“May I?” He gestured at the chair opposite her.

She gave a small nod, and he quickly moved over, taking with him his book and a cup that smelled of Earl Grey. When he was seated, he held out his hand. “Edward Taylor.”

She took his hand, which was warm and strong. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Taylor. Darla Morgan.” It wasn’t the name she’d been given by her parents, over 300 years previously, but she barely remembered that one anyhow.

Edward Taylor was beautiful when he allowed himself to smile broadly. “Delighted. But your hand is icy, my dear! May I buy you something hot to drink?”

She looked down at her coffee cup. It was nearly full, but no longer even warm. “Sure. Thanks.”

By the time her new cup arrived, she and Mr. Taylor were already bent together over his poetry book, reading aloud together about Buffalo Bill. They continued reading then, and she liked the sound of his voice, and his quick wit, and the way he treated her as an intellectual equal rather than an idiot. Only when the waiter stood over their table, clearing his throat significantly, did Darla realize that they were the last ones left in the café.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Taylor said. “I’ve kept you very late. Please forgive me, Miss Morgan.”

She stood and he helped her on with her coat and handed her her umbrella before getting himself ready. He left the waiter a healthy amount, she saw. They walked out the door together and then stood a little awkwardly in the mist.

“Miss Morgan, I hope you don’t think this presumptuous of me, but would you permit me to walk you home? I‘m afraid the city can be quite hazardous at this hour.”

She bit her lip at the thought of she being the one in danger, and she nodded. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Taylor.”

It was a pretty fair distance to her house, but they walked slowly, arm-in-arm, talking of books they’d read and plays they’d seen. She noticed he had a slight limp. He spoke a little about himself—he was a veteran of the Great War, and had been injured badly in France, but by now he’d recovered pretty well. He’d hoped to become a university lecturer, but he was an only child, and his father expected him to help run the family furniture shop. She knew the place although she’d never been inside, and it was pretty fancy, she thought. She made up a quick story of her own. She said she was the daughter of a pair of wealthy adventurers who’d tutored her themselves, and who’d toured the world with her. She told him that they’d died recently in an accident, and that she’d come to London to recover, and to decide where she might like to settle. He seemed both charmed by and sympathetic to her tale.

When they came to a stop in front of her stolen house, he looked around him, as if he were surprised to discover himself there already. He reluctantly disentangled his arm from hers, stuck his hand into his coat pocket, and pulled out the volume of poetry. “Miss Morgan, I would be honored if you would accept this small gift.”

She took it from him and hugged it to herself, as if she were a maiden who’d never received anything quite so special. The truth was, though, she actually did find herself touched over the present. “Thank you,” she said.

He hesitated for a moment. “Miss Morgan, I know we’ve only just met, but I was wondering if perhaps you’d join me Friday evening? There’s an exhibit on Egypt at the British Museum that you might fancy, and then perhaps we might have some supper together. There’s a delightful little place I know of….” His voice tapered off uncertainly.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, and watched his face light up with delight. “And please. Call me Darla.”

 

She waited for Friday like a girl planning her first date. It was silly of her, she knew. She wasn’t exactly a blushing schoolgirl, now, was she? But there was something about this man—Eddie, he’d said—that made her feel uncharacteristically giddy. The minions cast nervous, sidelong glances at her, clearly wondering what was up and whether it meant bad news for them, but she only smiled sweetly at them and tried on dresses and jewelry and, for the first time in forever, wished she could see her reflection in a mirror.

Eddie came by her house just after sundown on Friday. He didn’t have a car of his own, so he’d hired a cab. She wondered what he’d think of the Alfa Romeo in the carriage house, but she didn’t mention it to him.

She did enjoy the museum. She found herself expounding now and then about this exotic piece or that, things she’d become familiar with in her travels or had encountered over the past several centuries. Eddie didn’t mind. In fact, he asked her many questions and seemed genuinely fascinated with her every word. Over dinner, which she only picked at, pretending to have a delicate stomach, he smiled shyly at her and admitted to feeling humbled by the depth and breadth of her knowledge. Where most men would have been put off by her, or at least been tempted to boast and trumpet how very much they knew, he was only delighted to listen to her. She found his comments intelligent and insightful.

They walked for a while after dinner, and his arm crept protectively over her shoulders. It was comfortable, she thought. Warm.

A few nights later, they went to see a play, _Ghost Train_, which she might have enjoyed but she was pretty distracted by Eddie’s presence only inches away. Two nights later they went to the ballet. He tried to convince her to join him on an outing on Sunday afternoon, but she claimed she had some family business to take care of. Instead, they went back to the café Monday night and stayed until they were kicked out, talking and laughing and reading to each other.

Tuesday night, she took him for a drive in the Alfa Romeo. They drove far out of the city and found an empty road, and then she encouraged him to take the wheel and push the car to its limit. They kept the top down as they did, even though it was cold out, and their hair whipped around them as they whooped and yelled and screamed with mirth.

When they returned to her house, she parked the car and then came around to the front door, where he waited for her. His cheeks were red with wind and cold and his curls had run riot. She gave him a long look. “Would you like to come inside, Eddie?”

She waited a little anxiously for his response. Was it too forward for him? She might have been a whore once, but he didn’t see her that way, and she’d hoped to keep it that way.

He looked at her seriously. “I’d like to very much, actually. But are you certain?”

She put a hand on his arm. “Look. You know I’ve been a lot of places. I’m…experienced.” That was an understatement.

He blinked at her and then, to her immense relief, smiled. “You are the most fascinating woman I have ever met.”

The minions knew better than to show their faces when she had a guest. She could always explain them away as servants, of course, but, apart, from Luca, they were all very pretty, and they looked more like rent boys than butlers.

In her parlor, she served him some good Scotch. “Will you excuse me for a little while? I’d like to freshen up.”

“Certainly.”

She gestured around her. “Sorry about the décor. I sort of inherited the place. But there’s a whole shelf full of books over there, so help yourself.”

When she saw he was settled, she headed upstairs. She went first to one of the spare bedrooms, where the minions had stashed a snack for her, all bundled up tightly. This was a girl, drab and plain-looking, probably somebody’s maid. Her face was puffy and tear-stained, and her nose was so snotty that she was having trouble breathing with her mouth gagged. Darla made a face and quickly drained the girl. Not only did it slake her hunger, but it helped warm her body as well.

She left the body to be dealt with later. In her own bathroom she took a fast, very hot shower. She truly did want to wash the road grit off herself, but also she wanted to bring her body temperature up as close to human as possible. When she was through, she put on a few dabs of a subtle scent she’d found years ago in Paris, arranged her damp hair neatly—she was keeping it short nowadays, which helped—and put on a silky nightgown in delicate pink and a robe to match.

Eddie’s face colored again when he saw her, and he stood abruptly. “You look stunning,” he said, simply and sincerely.

She held out her hand and he put down the book he was holding. Then he allowed her to draw him up the stairs and into her bedroom.

He seemed a little shy as she undressed him, maybe because of the ugly scars on his leg and shoulder. But she found him beautiful, and she let him know that with gentle kisses on every part of him, imperfections and all.

Their lovemaking was slow and sensuous. His cock was of average size, but he knew how to use it, and his hands and his mouth, and he was equally comfortable with taking the lead or following hers. His heart beat so fast that he never noticed that hers didn’t beat at all. Very early that morning, as she lay tucked in his long arms, she reached a decision.

 

It was very simple, in the end. Two nights later they went out to a concert, and then he followed her up to her room again. This time she didn’t bother with the feeding or the shower. She took off his clothing first and then, while he waited in her bed, drew off her own. When she climbed in beside him he gasped.

“Darling! You’re chilled to the bone!”

She leaned up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Eddie…I need to tell you something. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

He frowned. “Good God. You’re married.”

She laughed. “No, it’s not that. I’m definitely single. It’s only, well…look.” And she allowed her features to shift.

Eddie’s eyes grew very, very big. He didn’t yell or scramble out of bed. Instead, he froze and then whispered so quietly even she could barely hear him, “Good Lord.”

“Do you know what I am, honey?”

“Vampire,” he rasped.

She nodded. “Exactly. And I’m going to give you the gift of eternal youth.”

He opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. Instead, she struck at his neck, her fangs sinking deeply into his jugular. He cried out and his body stiffened beneath hers. He might have tried to push her away, but she wasn’t sure, because she was caught up in delight at the taste of him. So caught up, in fact, that she barely remembered to pause and tear her own wrist, and then press it to his slack mouth before resuming her meal.

She felt him swallow a few times and it was exquisite to draw his life into herself and, at the same time, have him draw her unlife into him. When Eddie was dead, she retracted her fangs and closed his eyes and kissed the lids. “Soon, baby,” she said.

 

She’d tried to turn people without burying them, just out of curiosity, and it never worked very well. Either they didn’t rise at all, or else they did, but there’d be something off about them. They weren’t even fit to be minions then, and she’d abandon them to their fate, or sometimes even dust them herself.

She wasn’t taking any chances with Eddie. She had Luca and the others dig a shallow grave between the house and the carriage house, and she patiently waited for three nights. She was there when he clawed his way out, and she had a meal already waiting for him, a plump boy whom she knew would only take the edge off his fledgling hunger. After he fed, she took him upstairs and put him in the bath, and washed the dirt and blood off his body.

When he was clean again, he was still in a daze. That wasn’t unusual for the newly demonized. So she helped him into his clothing—she’d had some new suits made for him while he lay in the ground—and she took him outside. She watched with delight as he experienced his new senses for the first time and then as he hunted and took down his first prey, a young man weaving his way home from one of the local pubs.

Back in her room, they made love again. It was wilder than the first time and he growled and clawed at her as he came. She didn’t mind. Finesse would come later. When they were sated with each other they collapsed into each other’s arms, sticky and spent, and she dreamed of the times they would have together.

 

She awoke to find him sitting next to her, staring at her face.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I was born in 1583. I’ve been a vampire since 1609.”

He swallowed. “And how many times have you…?” He gestured at himself.

“Turned someone? Not many.” She smiled and sat beside him. “I’ve made minions now and then, when I’ve needed them. But a true companion…that takes somebody special. You’re only my third, actually.”

“And I’ll…live…forever now, so long as I drink blood?”

“Yes. Well, as long as you stay out of sunlight, and keep sharp wooden things out of your heart, and don’t get burned or decapitated.”

He whispered, “I’m damned.”

She shrugged. “I was damned before I ever grew fangs. But anyway, it’s so worth it. The things you’ll see! And the strength, the power…you’ve had only a tiny taste of it so far. Wait until you grow a little older. But no matter how old you get, you’ll never get sick, and you’ll always look like you do now, young and perfect.”

He stood. Nude, he walked to the window. It wasn’t yet dark and the drapes were closed, but still a little strip of sunlight crept in. He held his hand in it, and then hissed and pulled his hand back as his flesh began to smoke. “How many people have you murdered, Darla?” he asked, not looking at her.

“I don’t know. Thousands. What difference does it make? Most of them would be dead by now anyway. They’re only cattle, Eddie. God knows, for every one you kill, there are always plenty to take their place.”

He said nothing. She watched the shadows move over his skin, which had lost its slightly olive tones and was now pale as hers. He changed his face and wandered into the bathroom. He left the door open and she could see him stand in front of the empty mirror, staring at the reflection of the wall behind him while prodding at his brows and fangs with his fingertips.

When he came back into the bedroom, he looked down at her as she sat in bed.

“Come on, honey,” she said, patting the pillow next to her. “We have hours yet before we can go out and have some fun. We could walk in Hyde Park tonight if you like. And after we eat, maybe we can go the movies, or visit that bookshop in Bloomsbury that stays open so late.”

He stared at her for a moment. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid not.”

And then, before she could move, he ran. He dashed across the room and toward the window. For a split second, the thick curtains billowed around him, and then the glass shattered and he screamed as he flew into the air and immediately burst into flames.

She screamed as well, in anger and grief, but with the sun now shining brightly through the broken glass, she couldn’t even go close enough to look, but instead had to cower on the far side of the bed, shielding herself with the quilt.

 

As soon as night fell, she ordered the minions to pack her belongings into the Fiat. She left Luca in London with the Alfa Romeo, left the other minions as well. She drove south and east, heading for the coast. She wasn’t positive yet how she’d get back to the continent, but she knew she’d manage somehow. And then it would be a relatively short trip to Germany, and to a stone chamber beneath the ground. The Master would be pleased to see her.

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/85758.html)


	3. She's a 20th Century Vamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[20th century vamp](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/20th%20century%20vamp), [darla](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/darla)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Darla ficathon: She's a 20th Century Vamp (3/5)**_  
**Title: **She's a 20th Century Vamp   
**Chapter:** 1937: On Board (3 of 5)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con and dub-con, violence, het, seasickness   
**Summary:** Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.   
**Author's Note:** This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00074q9w/)  
---  
  
****

**1937: On Board**

 

She looked unhappily at the looming ship and then at the Master. “Are you sure about this? Things are getting really interesting in Germany and I’ll bet—“

He patted her arm in that patronizing way he had and tugged gently at her. “Now, now, my dear. I assure you, when our task is complete there will be ample bloodshed, even sufficient for my little hawk.”

“I’m sure there will. But why go all the way to America when—“

“Tsk, tsk. Are you having trepidations about visiting the country of your death? I assure you, it’s nothing like it was 300 years ago.”

She wondered whether he’d a few screws loose when he was human, too, or if he’d acquired bats in his belfry over the many centuries he’d been around. The former, she suspected. She was no spring chicken herself, and yet she was as sane as ever. In any case, over the years he’d had a lot of odd ideas, most of which he was too stubborn to be talked out of. This was clearly one of them, although she couldn’t for the unlife of her see how raising the Old Ones was going to benefit the Order of Aurelius. And she’d been happy in Europe, had enjoyed Asia and Africa. She had no wish to revisit the old homestead.

But she didn’t say any of this, simply allowing herself to be dragged up the gangplank and into the ship. She immediately found her way to her cabin where her luggage was already waiting for her. She left instructions with a minion that she only be interrupted for meals, and then locked the door in the flustered fledge’s face. She had no idea how the Master planned to keep them fed during the voyage, and she didn’t really care. She’d brought a deck of cards and a stack of books, and she had no intention of leaving the cabin until they were docked in Boston.

The stateroom was a small one, although she’d been assured it was second in size only to the Master’s. It contained a small bed, a desk, a tiny table, two chairs, and a chest of drawers. The bathroom was small, too, but included a tub and sink. A glass door led out to a private balcony, and it would be nice to sit there if the weather held, she thought. A heavy gold drapery was ready to pull across the door during the daytime.

She kicked off her shoes and peeled off her gloves, then went into the bathroom to wash some of the travel grime off herself. She was just hunting around for her favorite lounging gown when there was a knock at the door. She swore softly and answered it.

It was a good thing it was the Master; anyone else would have had his or her head ripped off. As it was, though, she smiled through gritted teeth. “Yes?”

“Is everything to your satisfaction, my dear?”

“Everything’s fine, Master.”

“Is there anything you require?”

“No. Thank you. I’m going to turn in early this morning.”

“If you start to feel ill—“

“Vampires don’t get seasick, Master.”

He raised his bald brows at her in a knowing look, then gave a little bow and walked away. She closed the door and locked it again.

Okay, maybe sometimes vampires did get seasick. But she’d been just a fledge then and weak. Now she was mature and strong and definitely immune to the effects of motion sickness. Definitely.

 

Mostly, she liked being a vampire. Sure, there were downsides, like the whole sunlight thing. But she’d led a fairly nocturnal existence even as a human, so that wasn’t such a hardship. It was certainly outweighed by the good points, like eternal youth and an instant cure for syphilis.

But there were a few vampire quirks she’d rather be without. The hunger was one. Generally she liked eating, liked it very much, and the perpetually perfect waistline was another perk. But the thing was, you _had_ to eat. It wasn’t a choice. If you went too long without feeding the hunger would kindle in your belly like a cold and terrible fire, and that fire would only grow and grow until it was extinguished by blood. It didn’t matter if your stomach was feeling kind of queasy, either, or if you’d managed to avoid vomiting for 300 years. You still had to eat.

The first night a minion had appeared at her door with a semi-conscious young woman in his arms. Darla had pressed her hand to her mouth, shook her head, and shut the door firmly in his face.

The second night the minion was back, this time with a skinny man who gaped at her blankly. The Master must have thralled him, she thought, just before she shoved the door closed and ran off to retch into the sink.

By the third night, she was ready to claw her way through the thin cabin walls. When the Master himself showed up at her door, she nearly growled at him. It was his fault she was stuck here, when she could have been on dry land instead, dining happily on nice, well-fed Nazis.

“My dear,” he said. “You have to eat something. Perhaps some fresh air would help. How about a walk on deck?”

“I have plenty of fresh air on my balcony, and it hasn’t helped at all. Nothing’s going to help except getting off this miserable tub.”

He frowned. “We have five more days to go, darling. You can’t starve yourself that long.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I’m going to have the minions bring you something special to eat. Don’t try to finish it all at once—just a few swallows here and there, and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

“So…what? I’m supposed to share this dinky cabin with a messy human?” Just the thought made her even more ill.

The Master sighed. “I’ll have the minions set it up in the bathtub, and they’ll take care of any messes.” She started to say something, but he put up his hand to stop her. “And! And we’ll keep it gagged so it won’t disturb you with noise, all right?”

She felt too crummy to argue about it. “Fine,” she muttered.

Another knock sounded at her door a short time later and she dragged herself out of bed to answer. There were two minions this time, and between them they were dragging a heavily bound young man. This one was neither thralled nor semiconscious, and he rolled his wide eyes at her in supplication. She gestured at the minions, who hauled him into the cabin and then to the bathroom. As he squirmed fruitlessly, they produced knives and cut his clothes away. “Easier to keep clean this way,” one of them explained when she gave him a skeptical look.

When the boy was completely naked except for ropes, they dumped him in the bathtub and then tied a rope around his neck, with the other end attached to the shower head. The rope was loose enough that it wouldn’t be in the way of her fangs, but it had a slip knot, and if he struggled too much or tried to get out of the tub he’d choke himself.

“And how am I supposed to bathe?” she demanded.

“Just let us know when you want to, Mistress, and we’ll move it out of your way.”

She didn’t much care for having to fetch minions just to get cleaned up, but she waved her hands impatiently at them and they left.

The man in her tub looked up at her imploringly and moaned. He was handsome, as near as she could tell through all the ropes. Muscular, with darkly tanned face and forearms, clear brown eyes, and curly, nearly black hair. There was more dark hair on his chest as well, and a thick line of it on his flat belly, leading down to his groin. His square jaw was covered in dark stubble, and his neck was thickly corded. When she looked more closely, she saw that the minions had missed the pendant he wore on a chain around his neck. She tore it off him with a quick jerk. Saint Nicholas. She allowed the medal to fall onto the floor.

The Master was probably right, she thought. She should at least have a few sips.

She vamped out. He yelped behind his thick gag and his eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. And then his body went completely tense as she bent down over him, inhaling deeply at the crook of his neck. He smelled of sweat and salt and fish, but, surprisingly, the combination actually settled her roiling stomach a little. Cautiously she sank her teeth into his neck—not into a major artery—and then lapped at the droplets of sweet blood.

She took only a mouthful or two and then pulled her head away. He groaned, and that’s when she saw the fairly impressive hard-on sticking up between his legs. Despite her nausea, she laughed. Many people got a sexual thrill from being bitten—a fact that made subduing prey a whole lot easier—but for some reason some seemed especially susceptible. Clearly, he was one of those, and even if he was radiating the scent of terror, that scent was now tempered with desire. His eyes were pleading for release, and even he might not be certain which kind. If she felt better, she would have probably fucked him while she fed, but she just wasn’t capable right now. Pity.

She stroked his thick bicep. “More later, honey.”

She lay down in bed and pretended she didn’t feel the ship rocking beneath her. She was still starving, of course, but at least she had the coppery tang of fresh blood still on her tongue, and that helped a little. Maybe she’d be up for another little bite soon.

 

Darla frowned a little as she looked down at the boy in the bathtub. The minions had come in earlier in the evening and removed his gag to give him some water. She’d heard him crying and begging in Greek then, until one of them did something to him that made him squeal in pain, and then he’d been silent. She’d heard the shower running after that, and she figured they were rinsing away the urine in which he’d been sitting, as well as the nervous sweat that had plastered his hair to his head and had filled the tiny room with a pungent, masculine aroma. His hair was still damp now, all standing up in an attractive tumbled mess. His neck was a mess, too, dotted with a half dozen small puncture wounds.

He’d given up the puppy dog eyes bit with her, and now he only slumped there listlessly with his head hanging.

“Hey, honey, don’t look so down,” she said, lifting his chin in her palm. “There’s lots of worse ways to go. You could have gone down with your ship some day, for instance, and wouldn’t that have been a waste? And there’s a big war on its way. You would have ended up a soldier, and that delicious innocence would have been all spoiled before you got blown to bits in the mud somewhere. If it wasn’t shipwreck or war it would have been disease, robbing you of those pretty looks before it took you, or starvation gnawing at your bones. No, this is best, honey, believe me.”

He looked at her with no understanding at all in his chocolate eyes. Damn. Probably didn’t understand English. Too bad, too. She’d been half-tempted to turn him, but she didn’t want to be stuck with a fledge she couldn’t even communicate with.

She kissed him gently on the cheek, just above the gag, and ran her fingers through his tangled hair. He leaned into her touch just a little, probably without even realizing it. “Poor boy,” she crooned at him.

When she bit him this time, she went directly into his carotid. His cock hardened instantly in her hand, and as she drew slowly on him, he lifted his hips as far as his bindings and his awkward position permitted, pumping himself into her firm strokes. It took very little time before he groaned into the gag and his hot seed shot over her hand and his belly. He continued moving though, slower and slower, and he sighed and came again shortly before he lost consciousness. Then he had too little blood left in him to maintain an erection, but she continued petting gently at his soft, sticky cock until his heart stuttered and stopped.

 

A storm blew in later that night, making the ship pitch and roll, causing Darla’s books and cosmetics to tumble to the floor. She left them there and slipped on a thin, silky dress. She didn’t bother with shoes as she padded out of her cabin, up two flights of stairs, and out onto the deck.

The wind whipped at her hair and frigid water sheeted down so thickly it was difficult to breathe. Crew members scurried around, securing deck furniture and occasionally stopping to vomit into the churning sea.

She felt fine.

The Master was at the prow of the ship, his fishbelly-pale hands wrapped around the wooden railing, his face set in a contented smile. “My darling!” he said when she came up behind him. He had to shout to be heard. “You’re feeling better!”

“Much, Master, thank you.”

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “What worked the cure for you?”

“That boy you sent me. I guess sailing was in his blood.”

The Master laughed and pulled her more tightly against him. “I’m delighted, my dear. Soon we will arrive in the New World, and I have arranged for limousines to take us to California. Shall I procure a chauffeur for you as well to prevent car-sickness?”

“Sure, if he’s as pretty as my sailor.”

He gave her a fatherly little kiss on the top of her head. “I am so looking forward to this. We will open the Hellmouth and then the world will be ours.”

Darla swiped her dripping hair back and smiled. She hoped he was right, but in any case, she was definitely in the mood for a little adventure.

[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/85974.html)


	4. She's a 20th Century Vamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[20th century vamp](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/20th%20century%20vamp), [darla](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/darla)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Darla ficathon: She's a 20th Century Vamp (4/5)**_  
**Title: **She's a 20th Century Vamp   
**Chapter:** 1967: Summer of Love (4 of 5)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con and dub-con, violence, het, seasickness   
**Summary:** Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.   
**Author's Note:** This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00074q9w/)  
---  
  
****

**1967: Summer of Love**

 

Darla was in love.

She’d always taken music for granted, more or less. She enjoyed it when she it was there, and didn’t think much about it when it wasn’t. She had owned phonographs over the years, and she liked radios as well, mostly because they provided company or entertainment during hours when the sun kept her confined indoors, or during long drives. But the music she’d heard recently had really caught her attention—new sounds by some of those British bands, but also American music that was completely new to her. Jimi Hendrix. The Grateful Dead. Janis Joplin.

She didn’t much care for the children who listened to these musicians. Sure, they were easy enough to catch, but they were often dirty, and they tended to have all sorts of things in their bloodstream. Darla didn’t like the feelings of loss of control that came when she ate someone who’d been stoned or tripping.

But she found it easy to pass among these young people, and they were tolerant of whatever eccentricities they saw in her. They stayed out very late as well, and slept in public, or in houses that were so communal that she discovered she didn’t need an invitation to enter.

And everywhere, there was the music.

She was in San Francisco, where the fog was thick enough sometimes for her to walk around during the day. She wandered into clubs and crash pads and bookstores, or crossed the Bay to Berkeley, where there were students around at any time of night and nobody paid her any attention as she wandered campus in the wee hours.

One of these nights, she was just off Telegraph Avenue when she heard the sound of a single electric guitar coming from a first-floor window in a big house that had been converted to apartments. She lingered for a few minutes, wincing. The instrument was being played very badly. The sound of it intrigued her, though, and she walked across the dry lawn and peeked inside.

A boy stood in a messy room. He was tall and very skinny, with long hair and a pointy chin. He was shirtless. He had a guitar slung across his hips and he was strumming at it with his eyes closed tight, probably imagining himself on stage somewhere.

Darla waited a few minutes until the song—if that’s what is was—was over, and then she knocked on the glass. The boy opened his eyes and looked at her in surprise, then strode over in three long steps. He slid the window open and the smells of marijuana and incense wafted out.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I was listening to you play. Can I come in?” She batted her eyelashes a little.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Cool. Um, just a second.” Moments later the front door opened, and he was beckoning her inside.

He didn’t taste very good. He hadn’t been eating well—junk food, mostly—and he tasted off, a little too chemical. But he was a meal, and, more importantly, he had that guitar.

It was a beauty, she thought. Not too flashy. It had a shiny black body with sharp horns and a white pickguard. The neck looked like maple, and she thought the fretboard was probably rosewood. The strap was ugly, but of course she could replace that easily enough. She ran her hands over the instrument’s smooth finish and smiled.

 

She only had two minions. When one of them made a face over her attempts to learn to play she decided she could do just as well with one, and she dusted the critic. The remaining minion, a handsome but dim cowboy she’d turned in Oklahoma, took great pains after that to smile when she picked up the guitar, and to clap when she finished struggling through a song.

Playing the thing wasn’t as simple as it looked. Her hands were small, for one thing. But her fingers were nimble and she had plenty of time to practice, and within a few weeks she could pick out a recognizable song or two.

That’s when she decided she needed a singer.

She herself couldn’t sing worth a damn, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think otherwise. Sadly, the cowboy proved even less able to carry a tune. So Darla began haunting coffeehouses and clubs, searching for just the right voice. It wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.

Still, she loved the feel of the wood in her hands and the metal strings under her fingers, and the weight of the guitar as it hung from her neck. She’d never been much of a dancer, really, but now she loved to move as she played, to sway her hips and bend her knees and twist her shoulders. She loved to toss and swing her hair, which she’d grown very long. She loved the noises she could make, like a roaring lion or a screaming human. She loved the way she could pour her emotions into the guitar—rage or passion or frustration or elation or hunger—and they’d come out amplified and made beautiful.

 

She finally gave up on San Francisco and instead drove east, taking with her only two suitcases, her cowboy, and the guitar. She killed enough along the way to fill her pockets as well as her belly, and when she got to New York, she was able to rent a decent little apartment in the Village. She covered the windows with heavy drapes and made the minion sleep in the closet, and every night she went out and prowled the streets.

She’d been in the city over two months when she found Jenn. The girl was rail-thin and strung out, standing on a corner with a paper cup full of change. Her hair hung in her face and her clothes were so filthy they could probably stand by herself, but she was singing, and her voice was raw and sweet and dirty all at once, like high school kids fucking in the back of a car.

Darla listened to her for a while, wanting to sink her fangs into the last of the evening’s commuters, who passed by without so much as a glance. Finally, Darla approached the girl and flashed a fifty dollar bill in front of her face. “Hey,” Darla said. “How’d you like to come talk music?”

Before she would talk to the girl, she made her take a shower, and she gave her a blouse and pair of jeans that hung on the girl’s skinny frame, and she sent the cowboy out to get the girl a sandwich and some coffee. When Jenn was fed and reasonably clean, Darla sat across from her at her rarely-used kitchen table. “I play the guitar, and I need a singer. You up for that?” Darla asked.

Jenn blinked at her, and then her eyes grew shrewd. “How much?”

“Room, board, and enough smack to keep you going.”

Jenn thought for only a moment before she nodded. “Okay.”

“There’s just one thing. Is this gonna be a problem for you?” Darla vamped out.

Jenn’s mouth dropped open. “Wow. You’re a—Wow. That’s really cool.”

Finding a drummer was easy. Jenn had a sometime boyfriend who could play okay. His habit wasn’t as bad as hers, and he came with a friend, a Jewish kid in glasses who played the bass. They weren’t a great band, Darla knew, but there were worse bands out there. Jenn was actually pretty when she was cleaned up, and the fact that their group was fronted by two attractive females helped them get gigs.

Through the rest of the summer and into fall they played small clubs and bars. Most of their audiences were too wasted to judge their quality anyway, and they’d happily groove along to the music. Sometimes the band would cover tunes from artists they liked, but sometimes Darla or Jenn would create an original song, usually making it up as they went along. They earned a little money and they played all night and slept all day, and Darla was as happy as she could remember being.

Once, a man from a record company approached them during a break and offered to sign a contract with them. “Do you have a name?” he asked. “A band’s gotta have a name.”

“The Demons,” Darla answered, smiling.

She promised to meet him after the next set. “Outside,” she insisted. “I can’t hear myself think in here.”

So he found her outside the door and she dragged him into the alley. She let him talk for a minute or two about royalties and studio fees, and then she drained him. She didn’t want to make a record.

As Darla had expected, the band fell apart by Thanksgiving. The bass player announced he was going to move to Michigan to attend graduate school. The drummer overdosed and ended up in rehab, where, Jenn said, he claimed to have found Jesus Christ. And Jenn, she of the amazing voice, she lost all interest in singing, and instead wandered the streets blank-eyed. The last Darla saw her Jenn was climbing into a van with a bunch of hippies who claimed to be heading for a commune in Canada.

Darla wasn’t sad about it. She still had her guitar and her cowboy minion. And, she was thinking, maybe a trip to Mexico would be nice.

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/86094.html)   
 


	5. She's a 20th Century Vamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[20th century vamp](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/20th%20century%20vamp), [anya](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/anya), [darla](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/darla)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Darla ficathon: She's a 20th Century Vamp (5/5)**_  
**Title: **She's a 20th Century Vamp   
**Chapter:** 1985: Tea and Sympathy (5 of 5)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con and dub-con, violence, het, seasickness   
**Summary:** Five vignettes from Darla's existence after the Boxer Rebellion and before Sunnydale.   
**Author's Note:** This is for [](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/profile)[**shapinglight**](http://shapinglight.livejournal.com/)'s Darla ficathon. Beautiful banner by [](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/profile)[**dawnofme**](http://dawnofme.livejournal.com/)! I'll be posting all 5 chapters today.

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00074q9w/)  
---  
  
****

**1985: Tea and Sympathy**

 

She hated tea. Nobody drank it when she was human, not in her parts of the world, and she hadn’t been happy when it started appearing in coffee houses a few decades later. Of course, by then her tastes ran to different fluids altogether, but she could stomach decent wine and good whiskey. Not tea, though.

But here she was, cardboard cup of the awful stuff between her palms, because she had to be seen drinking _something_. The coffee here was about as pleasant as paint thinner, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ingest those horrifying concoctions they called soft drinks. So tea it was, and she couldn’t help scowling a little as she sipped at it.

She reminded herself that if all went as planned, she’d soon be drinking something much more pleasant. In fact there was a likely-looking man coming her way right now. He wore a pastel blue jacket with the sleeves rolled up and a pink t-shirt underneath. His trousers were blue as well, and he sported an impressive 5 o’clock shadow and a pair of Ray-Bans, even though there was no sunlight here. He carried an expensive suitcase. She caught his eye and smiled, trying for exactly the right expression, a combination of vulnerability and invitation. His eyebrows shot up a little and he began to swerve her way.

“Hello.”

Darla looked across the table and nearly hissed with annoyance. “Yes?” she said, allowing a bit of menace to seep into her voice.

The young woman pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. The Don Johnson wannabe shrugged slightly and veered away, and Darla glared at the woman. “There are plenty of empty tables. I don’t want to share mine.”

The woman wasn’t the least put off. “But you wanted to share with that man. I don’t know why. I’m sure you could find much tastier prey if you tried.”

Darla narrowed her eyes. “Pardon me?”

“Tastier prey. From what I understand, they taste better when they’re younger, and that one was definitely not very young, even though he was wearing youthful fashions.” The girl smiled slightly conspiratorially. “Besides, haven’t you had enough of men?”

Darla raised an eyebrow. “If that was a proposition, I’m afraid—“

“Oh, no. Not that you’re not very attractive and everything, but I’m generally more satisfied having sexual relations with males, and besides, I try to keep my mind on the job when I’m working.”

Darla would have liked to just drain the silly bitch and get this over with, but there were a lot of people milling around the train station and she wasn’t in the mood to evade angry humans right now. “Look,” she said, leaning forward. “I don’t know what you want, but you’re not going to get it from me. Scram.” She let a tiny hint of yellow spark in her eyes. That was usually more than enough to get rid of unwanted people.

It didn’t work now, though. The girl just folded her arms on the table and looked at Darla like she was waiting for something. When Darla didn’t say anything, she rolled her eyes. “Hey, work with me here, okay? I’m not usually sent to vampires, and I’m not sure—“

“Vampires?” Darla hoped she didn’t sound too shocked.

“Yes. Are you calling yourself something else now? I know about African Americans and Native Americans…are you undead Americans, maybe?”

Darla’s hand shot out fast and grabbed the girl’s wrist very tightly. It should have been enough to make her wince and struggle, but she did neither. “Okay,” Darla said. “How about you tell me who the hell you are? Like, now.”

“My name’s Anyanka. You know, this is a little weird. Usually I can’t tell people who I am, but D’Hoffryn—he’s my boss—he said because you’re a demon too I could be a little more frank. That’s good. I prefer frankness.”

Darla blinked at her. “A demon too?”

“Of course. I’m a vengeance demon. And I’ve been wanting to visit with you for a very long time, but with one thing and another…. It’s a very busy industry, you know. Women are always in need of my services.”

Darla let go of her wrist and sat back. “Services?”

“Yes!” Anyanka played with the pendant around her neck. “There’s a man who wronged you, right?”

Darla laughed. “Honey, there have been plenty of those!”

“Yes, but almost all of them are dead. I can’t do anything to them, I’m afraid. Is there one who’s still alive?”

An image came immediately to Darla’s mind, one that made her want to sink her fangs into something fast. “Not alive, not technically, but….”

The vengeance demon grinned. “Another vampire? Fantastic! That sounds like a new challenge, and I don’t get those very often. Now, what do you wish to happen to him? I can give him boils on his penis.” She leaned in, and, in a confidential whisper, said. “That’s a specialty of mine. I’ve done it before, but it never gets old.”

Darla imagined the penis in question. It was a nice one. Not especially long, although certainly not short, but satisfyingly thick. And it was pretty, too, not all veiny and bumpy, not too purple when it was erect, and it didn’t curve off at any strange angles, either. No, it would be a shame to mar that organ, even if it had the misfortune of being attached to…an enormous dick. She chuckled. “No, let’s leave the penis alone.”

Anyanka shrugged. “Sure. Now, another option—“

“Hold on.” Darla looked down at her cup of tepid dreadfulness. “How about if we take this conversation somewhere where we can find something better to drink?”

The last of the evening’s commuters were still straggling through the station as the demons made their way up the big stairway and outside in to the deepening dusk. It was still balmy out, but with a hint of the chill to come. Time to move on soon, she thought. The cold didn’t really bother her, of course, but it was harder to hunt with fewer people outdoors, and besides, she hated all the ice and snow. Maybe she’d visit Florida this winter, or Arizona. It wasn’t time for California, not yet.

“Where are we going?” Anyanka asked.

“There’s a Hyatt a few blocks from here. We can go to the bar there.”

“Okay.” Anyanka looked around curiously as they walked up Adams Street. “Have you been in Chicago for long?”

“A few months. It’s all right, I guess. Nothing like anything in Europe, of course.”

“True. But I find that the United States does have its advantages. Everything is so shiny and new, and the inhabitants are so willing to spend money on worthless items! I like the cars better, too.” She waved at a red Oldsmobile as it drove by.

“I don’t think this country lived up to its promise,” Darla replied. “The people here used to be…daring. Exciting. Now they sit around and eat Big Macs and watch _Who’s the Boss?_”

“Yes, but I’d still take it any day over, say, 14th century Florence. Nobody’s interested in vengeance when they’re all dropping like flies from plague.”

Darla cast her a sidelong glance. “How old are you, exactly?”

“It’s my understanding that you never ask a lady her age. But since I’m not really a lady, I guess I can tell you. I’m eleven hundred and twenty-four. No! Twenty-five. I forgot. My birthday was last month. Nobody got me any presents. I don’t think I should be deprived of gifts just because I’m a demon, do you?”

Darla pointed at the door to the hotel. “I’ll buy you a drink. How’s that?”

“Oh good! That’s a traditional birthday ritual, I believe.”

The Hyatt bar had too many ferns and portly businessmen for Darla’s taste, but then, maybe she’d get a taste of one of those businessmen later. She and Anya sat at a table in the corner and the waitress came by to take their order. “Whiskey on the rocks,” Darla told her. “Something decent, nothing Irish.”

“A Manhattan for me,” added Anyanka.

“Do you have a problem with Irish?” Anyanka asked when the woman had left.

“I’ve lost my taste for anything from the Emerald Isle.”

The demon smiled slightly. “So we were discussing your wishes. I could make it as if you’d never met this man, or….” She brightened. “He’s a vamp, right? Maybe I can make it so he never got turned. He’ll have been rotting in a grave for how long now?”

Darla considered. “Two hundred and thirty years.”

“Perfect! And you get to spend the last quarter of a millennium without his no-good, despicable presence.”

It was tempting for a moment, but then Darla shook her head. “No. There were…some good times. Some really good times.” She sighed, and was happy when the waitress came by just then with their drinks. Darla grabbed hers and took a big swallow.

Anyanka, meanwhile, sucked thoughtfully on her cherry. “All right. How about if I turn him into something? Something really awful, like maybe a Sluggoth demon. I haven’t seen one of those in ages!”

“Sluggoth demon?”

“Enormous white worm. Perfectly appropriate for a man who acts like a maggot, don’t you think?”

The demon had a point, Darla thought, waving at the waitress for a refill. The vain old jerk would have a fit over becoming something disgusting like that. But then she thought of his beautiful face, the face of an angel. It would be a shame to lose that, really. She’d put up with a lot for a pretty face. Hell, look how long she’d allowed that idiot William to tag along! Oh, but those eyes, those cheekbones.... The things she and Angelus would do to him to pass the time! She was immersed suddenly in an extremely pleasant memory of her boy plowing eagerly into William’s firm, white ass, and Anyanka had to wave her hand in front of Darla’s face to get her attention. “Sorry,” Darla muttered. “Got a little distracted there.”

“We were talking about Sluggoths,” Anyanka reminded her. “Or it could be something else. Something even more horrible, maybe, like a rabbit.” She shuddered.

“Yeah. Let’s…let’s keep him looking like he is, okay? No giant worms, no carbuncled penises, no bones moldering in a grave.” Although the thought of her boy with a pert, fluffy little tail was…diverting.

Anyanka fingered her necklace again and chewed at her lip. “You’re not making this easy, you know. I’m providing a service here—at no cost to you, I might add—and you ought to be more appreciative.”

Darla smiled at her. “It seems to me that an eleven hundred year old vengeance demon might relish the chance to really prove herself. Create a masterpiece.”

The waitress came by again and Darla downed hers in one go, then signaled for a third round.

“Who is this man, anyway?” Anyanka asked. “Your sire, maybe?”

Darla laughed. “No, not him. He’s stuck in Sunnydale.”

“Where?”

“Sunnydale. In California. There’s a hellmouth there.”

“Ooh, a hellmouth! I haven’t visited one of those since…let’s see…Peru. 1823.”

“This one is closed now, unfortunately. But the Master will open it when the time is right.”

“Sounds interesting. Maybe I ought to pay a visit there when I get the chance.”

“Too much activity there for my preference, but you go right ahead.”

Anyanka nodded absently. “But right now we have your problem to solve. Why don’t you tell me what he did to you? That might inspire me. Did he cheat on you?”

Darla made a face. “No. I never especially cared who he screwed anyway. Not as long as he was there when I wanted him.”

“Then what did he do?”

Darla shuddered. “He got a _soul_. Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly his fault—there was this Gypsy curse. But then he came crawling back to me with that filthy thing in him, and he tried to convince me he was still my boy while he was off saving babies behind my back!” Her voice had risen and a few of the other customers turned to stare. She drained her glass again and tried to regain her composure.

“That’s terrible!” Anyanka said, and patted her hand awkwardly. “I can understand why you would be upset. Child-saving was definitely uncalled-for.”

“Yeah.” Darla smiled thinly.

“Let me think….” The vengeance demon tapped at her teeth with a fingernail. “Unwanted soul…he’s probably feeling pretty bad already for all the people he’s killed. Still feeling a vampire’s impulses but unable to act on them without crushing guilt. That’s going to be hard to top.”

Darla waited impatiently while her new acquaintance thought. She looked at her nails, which needed a manicure, and then inspected her shoes, which had seen better days. At the long wooden and brass bar, a balding man with a thick moustache gave her a tentative smile. She allowed her lips to curl up just a little bit. Not enough to encourage him to come over now, but sufficient to keep his interest for a while.

Anyanka suddenly slapped the table top. “I got it!” she exclaimed. “You wouldn’t mind waiting a while for the plan to fully come together, would you?”

“No, I guess not. It’s been decades already.”

“Excellent! Because I was thinking…what if this souled vampire of yours fell in love?”

“In love? _That’s_ your big awful plan? What dastardly thing will you do to him next? Send him flowers?”

Anyanka rolled her eyes. “In love with a human. Think about it! There he is, all dark and mentally tortured, and the one thing he yearns for is a human girl. He thinks he’ll never be good enough for the likes of her, and she’ll probably never have him, because humans generally aren’t very enthusiastic about relationships with demons. Plus, he gets the angst of either turning her and damning her, or letting her live and get old and sick and die.”

Darla thought about this for several minutes. There was a definite attraction to this proposal. The bastard would work himself up to new heights of brooding over it, and probably make the girl’s existence as miserable as his own. She could picture it, with him stalking her everywhere, or maybe getting to display his talent for social ineptitude.

She smiled at the other demon. “Make her young. A virgin.”

Anyanka grinned in triumph. “I can do better than that. I’ll make her a vampire slayer!”

For the first time in a long while, Darla laughed with genuine delight. “What do I have to do?”

“Just make a wish.” Anyanka clutched her pendant.

Darla winked at the man with the moustache, and he blushed a little before managing a light leer back. Perfect. She’d bet he had a nice fat wallet, too. Tonight was turning out pretty well after all.

She leaned back in her chair and waved at the waitress again. This was going to be fun. “I wish….”   
_  
_

_\---fin---_   
 


End file.
